


Glutton for Punishment

by fiendfyreworks



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Begging, Bullying, Degradation, Dom/sub, F/F, Femslash, Hogwarts Sixth Year, Humiliation, Its a mild fic ok but fun I promise, Lesbian, Light Dom/sub, Mild Smut, Pansmione - Freeform, Pansy is a bitch, Revenge, Sexual Tension, also mild, and Hermione gets what she wants, but like mild, not super satisfying ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-17 16:14:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29474529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fiendfyreworks/pseuds/fiendfyreworks
Summary: Hermione checks her watch. "Hmm. That's 36 minutes, Pansy."The other witch swallows, but does not reply. She watches Hermione expectantly, brow lowered slightly above pitch black, catlike eyes."You know, I don't particularly like the number 36." Hermione muses, examining her nails. "I'm almost tempted to give you a double strike for that."In her peripheral vision, she sees Pansy's unmoving form. The witch's face stays carefully blank, safe for the working of her throat. And her breaths are coming out a little bit faster, too, Hermione notes with a measure of satisfaction. Silence stretches for a while – a little longer – and then she's satisfied, and speaks up. "But now, what fun would that be?" She smiles playfully, shaking her head. "No, I think I'll give you another chance, Pansy."XXXHermione decides she's ought to teach Pansy a lesson in manners. And Hermione always gets what she wants.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Pansy Parkinson
Comments: 3
Kudos: 36





	1. she sucks

**Author's Note:**

> what went into this fic: three hours and copious amounts of alcohol. enjoy ;)

Hermione is in the Great Hall. Seated next to Harry and Ron, their blabbering goes in one ear and out the other. She's clutching a cold spoon in one hand, her scratchy robes in the other, and does her best to keep her eyes on her food. It's a dessert of some kind, mushy, wet, beige. She fails. Her gaze finds the Slytherin table, and then Pansy seated next to Malfoy, licking her spoon, pretty features completely focused on her ferret-like neighbour. 

Hermione frowns. It's kind of irritating, really. Pansy's features are almost uncannily symmetrical and proportional, from her catlike eyes, straight nose, to her pouty lips. Wrapped around a spoon. Hermione blinks. Like she was saying, Pansy is a huge bitch who's done nothing to deserve her good looks, which is irritating. Hermione sees her point at the Hufflepuff table and make what is undoubtedly a cuttingly mocking comment.

Hermione's eyes narrow.

Harry, Ron and herself had been targets of bullying for years now.

It was worse for her, at first. Thanks to her heritage, no doubt.

Pansy, especially, delighted in putting her down. Sly remarks about her hair, her teeth, her good grades. Anything, she supposed, to prove her female superiority.

It was mostly verbal, though Pansy found excuses for a little physical pain as well. She would bump into her in hallways, shove her, trip her up. Look down at her with that sadistic smile. Make her feel small, insignificant.

And Hermione would just bide her time.

Her hate is a slowly simmering cauldron, brewed under crescent moonlight and with immense patience. Every time Pansy looked her in the eye and called her a Mudblood whore, every time she and her friends stepped on her books as they sent them scattering in hallways, the cauldron would fill up a little bit more.

See, Slytherins tend to assume only they can be ambitious.

And that is just patently untrue.

Once Hermione makes up her mind about wanting something, nothing can get in her way.

She always gets what she wants.

And on top of this semester's list?

Fine, it's top grades.

But second to that?

Revenge on Pansy Parkinson.

"Hermione? You seem kind of distracted," Harry comments.

She tears her eyes away from the irritating bitch and refocuses on Harry. "Oh, just thinking about my Potions essay."

Both boys snicker at that. "Figures she'd be daydreaming about homework," Ron guffaws.

She rolls her eyes good-naturedly. Blissfully oblivious, they are. 

She's plotting. 

xxx

Hermione has done her research, but it takes a while for her to find an opening. In the meantime she was productive, of course – as she predicted, sixth year was more demanding than ever before – keeping up with schoolwork is absolutely crucial. But now an opportunity presents itself.

Snape set a project, and assigned Hermione to work with Pansy ("Let's break up the Golden Trio, shall we?" He sneered). 

Hermione approaches Pansy, frowning. Perfect opportunity it may be, but she will not let it get in the way of her marks. 

Pansy watches her with narrowed eyes, looking rather sour. Probably hoped to work with Malfoy, Hermione thinks. It's kind of pathetic, really.

"Hoped to work with the ferret, did you?" She asks amicably, sliding in next to her.

Pansy's arms are crossed, her back stiff, not really looking at her. Hermione finds this irritating.

"Better than working with a Mudblood." She sneers.

Hermione's jaw clenches, but she keeps her expression carefully neutral. Her voice drops to a whisper. "It is a bit pathetic, you know. The way you follow him around, like a dog trying to hump its master's leg. Then again, I suppose self-respect was never your strong-suit."

Pansy's eyes flare and she whips her head around– there's the eye contact, Hermione thinks with a small smirk – and hisses, "Shut the fuck up, you filthy Mudblood bitch."

Hermione feels her eye twitch, but she just tsk's and reaches across her for a bottle of Standard Potioning Water. "Such a dirty mouth. Here's what's going to happen, Pansy," she says, calmly, pouring the bottle into their cauldron, "You are going to carry your weight in this project. There will be no complaining, no tardiness, and certainly no leg humping. You can do that after class."

Pansy sneers, "Oh? And what makes you think I'll do that, you Mudblood bitch?"

"Pansy, have you ever heard of synonyms? Repetition does make you sound a tad... illiterate, I'm sorry to say."

"You know, I could make the "Brightest Witch of our Age" fail Potions class," she spits, and then a smile curls her lips, "I think I'd like that." 

"No, you couldn't. Even if you never show up, I can just do it myself," Hermione points out, "But that's a moot point, because you will show up and you will do your work."

Pansy's eyes narrow. "Yeah? And if I don't?"

Hermione stills for a moment, before the tension leaves her spine and she smiles. "Try it and find out. Really. It would make my day."

Uncertainty flashes across Pansy's eyes for a second. Then she huffs. "Please. You're bluffing. There's nothing you can do."

Their elbows brush as Hermione recorks the bottle. A genuine smile blooms across her face. "Whatever you say, Pansy."

xxx

As she expected, Pansy is late. Hermione came prepared, of course. She is leaning against a desk, in an empty Potions classroom, reading Most Potente Potions, when the door creaks open. 

"You're twenty minutes late, you know," she remarks, eyes still glued to her book ('One must consider Golpalott's Third Law, in that a blended poison is greater than the sum of its parts-')

Pansy clears her throat, shuffles over, then sniffs, "I was busy."

From her peripheral vision, Hermione sees Pansy's hand play with the bottom of green skirt. A tiny detail, but there nonetheless.

"Get the Standard Potioning Water, please."

A second of silence passes. Then Pansy obeys, pouring it into the cauldron.

Hermione snaps her book shut. Feeling the tardy witch's gaze on her face, she holds up the small pink vial. "Garish pink blended poison. You have no suggestions on making the antidote, I assume, so we will be proceeding with my ideas."

Pansy swallows, brows furrowed and eyes flicking across Hermione's features. "Fine."

Hermione explains her ideas, then adds,"I took the courtesy of using Scarpin's Revelaspell in advance. Prepare ten phials for ten ingredients, please."

She just stares for a few seconds, cat-like features contorted in a frown. Hermione pays her no mind, having gone back to skimming through Most Potente Potions. 

"So... you were bluffing," Pansy ventures eventually.

In no hurry, Hermione quirks an eyebrow, "What makes you think that?"

Pansy's face is screwed in puzzlement. "Well, I was thinking..."

"Don't hurt yourself."

That seems to snap her out of it, bringing a sneer back to her face. "Hilarious. I was thinking you would at least have the sense to follow up on your threats. They're called threats for a reason, you know."

"What makes you think I'm not?"

"I- what?"

"What makes you think I'm not following up on my threats?"

"Because... you're not?" She scoffs.

Hermione puts her book down, and advances toward Pansy, who, clearly not expecting a rapid approach, bumps into the desk behind her. One hand pinches her Slytherin green skirt, the other grasps her wand. Her throat works in a swallow. Hermione stops just a little too close, not missing the blush spreading across foxy features, sneer-free in astonishment. 

She leans in a touch closer, feeling Pansy's quick breaths across her face. She stares into uncharacteristically wide eyes, with a hint of something like panic in them. 

"I am," Hermione breathes, a smirk stretching her lips. Then Pansy gasps softly as she moves closer, close enough that their chests touch, feather-light. But in the next breath she's gone, having successfully reached behind Pansy for five spare phials lying on the desk. 

"Now, considering each ingredient has a decently complex antidote recipe, and the overall difficulty of following Golpalott's Third Law, we will have to meet daily if I am to succeed at this," she glances over her shoulder, noting Pansy has not moved yet, "Which I, of course, will."

xxx


	2. bitching and moaning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aand it's picking up..

Pansy, little cow that she is, renews her efforts in being a snarky bitch to the Golden Trio. This is not surprising to Hermione. Trying to regain a sense of superiority and control, she thinks. It is, however, rather annoying. 

So the next time Pansy opens her mouth to taunt Harry, Hermione cuts her off. "You know, Pansy, if you kept quiet, we could probably forget that you're inbred. But the first year level vocabulary kind of betrays it."

Hermione had long since grown immune to bullying. Indifference is a powerful weapon, when used correctly. (The fact she could use her wand correctly didn't hurt, either).

Harry and Ron break into guffaws.

She scowls. "Shut up, Mudblood bitch."

"Just proving my point, Parkinson."

xxx

Pansy is taunting her. Fifty minutes late today. Hermione is halfway through Most Potente Potions, having picked it up yesterday (well, it is a heavy tome, she reasons – obviously it takes a bit longer than usual to read). Her foot taps impatiently.

The seconds are slow and viscous. 

Finally, she's had it. 

She picks up a parchment. Takes a quill to it. Leaves it on the desk and walks out. 

xxx

A little while later, Pansy strolls into the classroom with a small smirk on her lips.

One that falls when she notices it's empty. 

Her expression twists in a scowl, gaze narrowing when it falls on a piece of parchment. She marches over to it and unfolds it, blinking when the letters come into view.

_Strike 2/5_

xxx

Hermione is sat in the library, bent over a six inch Transfiguration essay. She deftly traces letters with a quill, tongue caught between her lips in concentration. (It is a fascinating piece on the Principles of Re-Materialisation.)

The door slams open and Pansy comes marching in, stomping like an angry bull. She holds up the parchment and with a snarl: "What the fuck is this!"

Hermione has expected this, of course, so she does not bother looking up. "It's a parchment, Pansy," she says slowly. 

Pansy stomps her foot like a petulant child. "I know that! I meant what the fuck do you mean, strike two out of five!" She screeches as she braces her hands on the table, crowding the other witch. Annoyingly, the table shakes a little bit.

Hermione sighs and finally looks up. She holds a finger up against her mouth, "Shh." Then presses it against Pansy's lips, "This is a library." A small smirk curls her lip as Pansy turns, if possible, even redder than before, nostrils flaring.

"You bitch!!" She exclaims – though the effect is somewhat unimpressive, as she attempts to keep her volume library-appropriate – "I can't stand you, you fucking. Mudblood. Swot!" 

She shoves the other witch's shoulder. Ink droplets splatter on Hermione's essay, eliciting a soft gasp from her. A stunned silence follows.

Even Pansy looks somewhat taken aback. She takes a step back. "I..."

Hermione is still staring at her ruined essay, jaw clenching. Suddenly she stands up, the angry screech of her chair making Pansy cringe. Hermione grabs the parchment out of the other witch's hands, picks up her quill, scribbles something angrily before pressing it back into Pansy's hands. 

"What do the strikes mean? Find out, Pansy. Please." she hisses in a low tone.

Pansy blanches. "Hermione, I-"

Her tone is cold. "Piss off, Parkinson. I don't want to see your face right now."

Later, when Pansy open up the parchment for a second time, she finds it now says:

_Strike 3/5_

xxx

Hermione is hardly surprised to find Pansy triples her efforts in being a nasty twat. Hermione is not irritated though. 

(Fine, she is, but she shoves it aside). 

She bides her time instead. Things are, after all, progressing rather merrily. 

She sees the moment Harry's legs lock up and his face contorts into a confused grimace. He has little choice but to begin awkwardly hopping over to their table, hand poised at his wand but not using it. 

She sighs. That's what happens when you don't pay attention in class. They had learned the Leg Locker counter-curse last year (though Hermione had, of course, know it by First Year).

Hermione's eyes slide towards the Slytherins and hone in on Pansy's giggling face. Just then, she looks up and their gazes meet. Hermione lifts an unimpressed brow. Pansy's eyes widen minutely. The amusement slides off her face. She overcorrects quickly, of course, replacing it with her characteristic sneer. But Hermione does not miss the redness in her cheeks. 

She takes out her wand and casts the counter-curse on poor Harry, whose face now rivals the ripest of beets in hue. He mumbles his thanks in between muttered curses, settling down next to her. 

Hermione's gaze strays back towards the Slytherin table. Pansy is not paying attention, laughing with her ferrety neighbour. 

_If only she knew,_ Hermione thinks with a grim smile, _what I have in store for her._

_She won't be laughing for much longer._


	3. fuck her

Pansy is late again. Hermione smirks a little, checking her watch. 

She is rather happy with her use of the past half hour. She's fairly certain the antidotes to the individual poison components are proceeding well on track. Some of them were bloody difficult to determine, too. 

But it's like she's said. 

Hermione always gets what she wants.

And on that note, the door to the Potions classroom opens and Pansy walks in. Her expression is carefully guarded, neutral.

Won't help you, Hermione thinks.

She checks her watch. "Hmm. That's 36 minutes, Pansy." 

The other witch swallows, but does not reply. She watches Hermione expectantly, brow lowered slightly above pitch black, catlike eyes.

"You know, I don't particularly like the number 36." Hermione muses, examining her nails. "I'm almost tempted to give you a double strike for that."

In her peripheral vision, she sees Pansy's unmoving form. The witch's face stays carefully blank, safe for the working of her throat. And her breaths are coming out a little bit faster, too, Hermione notes with a measure of satisfaction. Silence stretches for a while – a little longer – and then she's satisfied, and speaks up. "But now, what fun would that be?" She smiles playfully, shaking her head. "No, I think I'll give you another chance, Pansy."

She pushes off the table and advances toward the immobile witch, whose eyes are stuck on her like a deer watching a wolf prowl towards it. 

Her mouth opens. "I-"

"Now, Pansy." Hermione cuts her off. "What do we say?" She smiles, suddenly only a foot away and sticking her wand into Pansy's neck.

"I-" Pansy starts saying, then stops.

The shorter witch lifts an impervious eyebrow. "Use your words."

Wand pressing into her fluttering jugular, she sucks in a breath. Lets it out. Her eyes flutter closed in an internal battle for a second. They open, look down. "I'm sorry..." it's barely a whisper. 

Hermione's expression remains impervious. "And?"

Pansy's eyebrows lower for a moment, confused. 

Hermione sees the moment it connects, watching her throat work in a dry swallow. Heat rises in the other witch's cheeks, barely noticeable. Lips press together. She doesn't want to say it. But Hermione knows she will.

Pansy licks her lips nervously. Everything in her is telling her not to say it. Don't succumb. Hermione can practically see the thoughts battling against each other.

"Thank you," Pansy mumbles, hesitates.

"For?"

She frowns momentarily. Eyes widen when it connects, cheeks pink. Mouth tries to sneer before relaxing. "...For your mercy," she breathes.

Hermione is already turning around, tucking her wand back into her robes. "Now, that wasn't so hard, was it?" She comments drily, striding back to her workspace. "Come on, and hold these phials for me. You're going to decant them when I tell you to."

Pansy works in uncharacteristic silence. Avoids eye contact. Occasionally, their hands brush as they methodically mix and grind and brew ingredients. Hermione's features are set in something of a triumphant smile as they work and the potions change colours under her quick hands. 

"Smell it."

"Wh-" Pansy starts, looks up, "what?" Surprise is replaced with the start of a scowl, "Why should I-"

Rolling her eyes, Hermione grabs the disobedient witch by the back of her neck and pushes her nose into the cauldron. "I said. Smell it."

Pansy inhales sharply, breaths coming fast as her body angles over the desk, arms bracing under her. "I- I don't know, I-" Her face contorts in puzzlement, "-I guess it smells like – you?" The sentence ends in a question as her eyes flicker up to meet Hermione's. 

A decidedly dark smile stretches the curly haired witch's face. "See, Pansy," she comments slowly, savouring the sight before her. "That's how I know you're not that bright." 

She ignores the scowl forming on the other witch's features. "Because," she breathes, "if you were a little faster, you would have never said that."

Pansy blinks rapidly, once again looking somewhat disoriented.

"How do you brew Amortentia, Pansy?" The question is soft. Innocent.

Pansy gasps and tries to rise up. She's slammed back down by the hand on her neck. The force is not violent. It's measured, irritatingly. so. She sucks in a breath. Opens her mouth in protest.

Hermione clucks her tongue. "Pansy." Her tone is chiding, disappointed. "Pansy," she repeats, leaning in closer, delighting in the widening eyes. "There's no taking back what you said, you know?"

Pansy's lips part as the sentence fans across her face. Hermione is close enough to note the widened eyes, expanding pupils. Near gasping breaths.

And in one breath, Hermione is gone. Packing up her bag, throwing it over her shoulder. "See you tomorrow," she calls with some delight.

Pansy is still braced against the desk when the door closes.

xxx

A day later, Hermione is lounging on a stool, elbows braced against the desk behind her as she skims through a heavy tome. She checks her watch. There is a real chance, at this point, that Pansy will not show up at all. Frankly, she wouldn't be overly surprised – Slytherins are not known for strength of character.

The door creaks and slowly pushes open. Hermione's eyes flit upwards, brow raised.

Pansy is standing in the doorway. Not quite looking down, but not quite meeting her eyes. One hand clutches her skirt, the other braces against the door. She looks uncharacteristically apprehensive, spine no longer ramrod straight. Pink suffuses her cheeks. 

"Well." Hermione comments, leisurely setting her tome down and uncrossing her legs. "Look who decided to show up."

Pansy swallows, eyes flicking upwards for a second before refocusing on the ground. 

"Come here." she commands.

Her nostrils flare, mouth opens in the beginning of a retort. Hermione cuts her off with a click. "Tsk. Don't make me repeat myself, Pansy."

The pureblood witch hesitates only a second before obeying, hesitantly shuffling over to stand two feet in front of the seated girl. She still can't quite meet her eyes.

Hermione smirks slowly, then. "Good girl," she says softly. Stands up. Takes her time, stretching out her arms against an exhale. Feels the moment her blouse rides up slightly and Pansy's gaze makes contact with the small sliver of uncovered skin on her stomach.

Abruptly, she drops her arms. Takes two steps towards Pansy, who is now, once more, watching her shoes. 

"How many strikes do you have now, Pansy?" She questions gently.

The other witch's throat works in a swallow. Her lips part, voice hoarse. "Five."

Hermione slowly lifts her hand, cupping Pansy's cheek. Wide eyes flit up to meet hers, pupils blown wide, before dropping back to the ground. Hermione thinks Pansy must've stopped breathing, as the other witch's splotchy blush extends all the way down her alabaster throat. "And what did I say would happen when you got five strikes?"

"You said you would punish me," Pansy tells her shoes, voice breathy.

Hermione drops her hand and withdraws, settling against a nearby desk, arms crossed. Several seconds pass before she speaks again. "Bend over the desk."

Pansy's eyes, wide with surprise, flick up. She blinks rapidly. The moment stretches over several heartbeats, silent save for Pansy's quick pants. "I-" she begins.

"No talking unless I tell you to," Hermione cuts her off, looking bored. She's not reaching for her wand, however, arms firmly tucked against her chest. Pansy would be quicker on the draw, if she wanted.

Indecision flickers over the black-haired witch's face. Then, slowly, almost robotically, she takes a step towards the desk on her left. Stiffly, she braces her arms against it, dropping her face against the desk as she bends over. Her skirt rides up, revealing the backs of milky thighs.

Hermione squashes the triumphant smirk on her face and walks over to her. Stretches the anticipation. Pansy can't see her now. Soft footfalls are the only indicators of her proximity. 

Hermione slowly bends over Pansy's form. Brushing raven locks from her face, she breathes into her ear, "Good girl, Pansy." She doesn't miss the small shiver her whisper elicits. Hermione's left hand slowly trails down Pansy's spine, barely skimming the fabric of her uniform before stopping at the hem of her skirt. This close, Pansy's ragged breaths sound loud, filling the space between them. 

Carefully, Hermione hooks a finger beneath the hem of her skirt. Slowly, she pulls it down, finger trailing over the other witch's arse as she does so. She can't quite suppress the startled laugh at what she finds underneath. Pansy begins to tense but Hermione brushes her free hand through her silky black hair. Pansy's spine arches minutely at the sensation. 

"Shh," Hermione coaxes, though fails to keep the smirk entirely out of her voice, "you wore those for me, I see."

Her eyes sweep over Pansy's exposed arse, covered only by a small slip of white, lacy fabric. At this angle, there is no missing the wet spot. Her fingers trace the white lace of Pansy's knickers appreciatively.

"Please," the sound is a soft, strangled cry, muffled as Pansy buries her mouth against her sleeve.

Hermione arches a brow. "What was that?"

"P-please..." she repeats, "touch me, Hermione..." 

She obeys, then, pressing her thumb gently against the damp spot. Pansy gasps gently, arches herself deeper into the contact. She whimpers as Hermione chuckles, rubbing circles with her thumb. 

Steadily, her hands pull down white lace, exposing perfect pink, glistening folds. Figures she looks flawless even down there, Hermione thinks with a measure of bitterness. 

"Tell me, Pansy," she whispers, "what else you want me to do to you." Her fingers trail over the slit, making Pansy gasp when she skims her sensitive bud.

"I want to," her voice is strangled, breathy, "I want to feel your fingers inside me. I- " she pauses when Hermione's fingers approach her entrance.

They still at Pansy's sudden silence. The pureblood witch makes a small sound in frustration.

"Go on," Hermione breathes, "Tell me what you want."

"I want you to finger me.."

Pansy moans when the other witch's fingers starting moving into her hot slick folds. "Yeah..." Hermione notices with a flicker of enjoyment that she's risen up on tiptoes, ass arching high in the air to grant her better access.

Her fingers still. Pansy makes a soft keening sound, and seems to subconsciously arch into her fingers, seeking the lost friction. 

Before Hermione can open her mouth to prompt her, Pansy speaks. "I want more fingers."

With her other hand, Hermione pushes satiny black locks behind her ear and breathes, "Ask nicely." 

Pansy groans, dropping her head against the desk, but wastes little time. "I-" she swallows, "Please, please... fill me up.."

Hermione obediently adds one finger, then another, and Pansy throws her head back, face red and eyes scrunched in pleasure as the fingers move inside her.

"Tell me what else you want from me."

"I- please, Hermione.. I'm close... I want to cum on your face," Pansy whispers, eyes shut.

Hermione grins and suddenly, her hand is gone. Pansy lifts her head in surprise. Her lips part as Hermione's fingers trace her lips, smearing her wetness on them. There's a mean-natured glint in Hermione's eyes as she watches Pansy take her fingers into her mouth. 

"You know, Pansy. I do find your degradation terribly exciting." At her words, Pansy's eyes widen. "But," she continues, leaning closer, "I'm just... not into girls." She watches Pansy's face fall, mouth drop open as she backs away from the bent over witch. 

The last thing Hermione sees before she leaves is Pansy's completely dumbstruck expression. She will remember that for a very long time, she thinks, smiling triumphantly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Muahaha. I might be persuaded to write a sequel.  
> Feedback is appreciated xx


End file.
